Girl on the Couch

Life, Love, and Confessions of a Normal Neurotic

(Villard; 327 pages; $14 paperback)

Like others she knew, Lorna Martin was skeptical of therapy. She dismissed "the so-called talking cure as an extravagant con for weak, pathetic, self-indulgent losers who had lots of time and money on their hands but nothing more serious to kvetch about than the terrible hardship of having nothing particularly serious to kvetch about."

When a problem arose, she dealt with it in her own efficient manner, she says in "Girl on the Couch." She distracted herself; she worked out, drank, read a book, watched a movie, traveled or listened to ABBA.

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Her friend Emily joked about therapy, too. "You know what they say. Anyone who would go to see a psychiatrist ought to have their head examined."

In 2006, however, Martin had a change of heart. Prone to tearful outbreaks, anxious about a new job at the Observer, the Sunday edition of London's the Guardian, and reeling from a bad relationship with a married man, the Glasgow, Scotland, resident decided to seek professional help.

Her thrice-weekly meetings with a psychiatrist she calls Dr. J., and the understanding Martin eventually develops about self-esteem and her fears of intimacy and of disappointment form the basis for this book.

By turns serious and comical, the prose offers a unique perspective on the emotional healing process. At the same time, thankfully, her story is devoid of the intense trauma, depression and misery that characterize so many memoirs these days.

Martin describes, for example, Dr. J.'s office in the West End neighborhood of Glasgow. She writes of her initial impressions of the woman. Her carefully styled shoulder-length hair, wire-rimmed glasses and stern, businesslike manner evoke "a grimmer Helen Mirren. In her portrayal of Her Majesty, the Queen."

When she makes small talk, the doctor ignores her. When she asks a polite question, the doctor does not answer. When she cracks a joke, the doctor does not laugh. When she wants an opinion, the doctor does not give one.

But Martin continues to tackle the issues. In therapy, she learns ultimately, "every word, every pause, every silence, every bloody comma (is) seized from the air between us, thrust under a powerful microscope, and subjected to an in-depth forensic analysis. ... It made me realize how easy it is to hide from yourself in the real world, without being aware of it."

The sessions prove brutal. They are exactly what Martin needs, and what make her narrative compelling.

Unfortunately, "Girl on the Couch" falters occasionally. For example, Martin's anecdotes about a potential romantic interest, an emergency room physician "with a lovely deep sexy voice," are initially entertaining. They provide levity; they shift the mood. They depict a series of mixed signals and missed connections.

After a while, however, the events surrounding Martin's renewed attempts at love veer inevitably and precariously into chick-lit territory. They play like slapstick. Recollections of cringe-worthy e-mail and voice-mail messages, both to and from her, start to get irritating.

Perhaps the author should have kept these two threads separate. Perhaps she should have saved the second string for a different project. As it stands now, the latter topic does a mild disservice to an otherwise appealing and introspective book on Martin's efforts at peace and happiness.